


The Most Unnatural of Perversions

by Mandibles



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: G, Group Sex, Masturbation, Multi, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a DA:O kinkmeme prompt. M!Amell/Everyone. Further self-love from Daylen Amell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Unnatural of Perversions

The reek of darkspawn blood still clings to the air of their camp, but Daylen revels in it. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, adrenaline still thrumming in his blood which pools and coils in his groin. A whine—animalistic and lustful—wells in his throat, but he swallows it, wary of the crunching twigs and chatter of his traveling companions.

 

The monetary clink of Zevran ransacking corpses; Oghren’s drunken mumbles as Wynne tsks over his wounds; Morrigan and Alistair snarking relentlessly with each other; his Mabari keening loudly at Sten who’s grunts are nothing less than affectionate. It’s the symphony of Daylen’s life, and it gets him harder than stone.

 

It’s all the blasted fighting that does it to him. It’s all the blood and pain and cries that get to him. Life in the Tower, though demeaning and difficult, was relatively quiet. The templars despite all their remarks never did much when the occasional Blood Mage wasn’t raising havoc. Life in that hell was, more or less, peaceful.

 

But this—massacre—does something to his body, to his soul.

 

“Where are you going?” It’s Alistair, voice incredulous. He spreads his arms to the swathe of death around them. “We should pick up camp; it’s not safe here anymore.”

 

Daylen sighs then nods. He’s never quite gotten used to the whole authority thing. “Right, right. Just . . .” His prick throbs, straining against his small clothes and robes. “Let’s just gather our bearing for a bit before we pack up.”

 

Alistair’s mouth opens to retort.

 

“Ten minutes,” Daylen says sternly, “Ten won’t hurt.”

 

He doesn’t wait for the templar’s response, brushing past him and stalking to his tent. His post-battle mood swings are not uncommon, and the others brush it off with little concern.

 

The moment the tent flaps closed and he’s in the safety of his little nook, Daylen decides not to fiddle with his robes. It’s all sashes and wrapping and clasps, and besides the fact that he has no patience, he has no time. Though ten minutes is more than enough time for a quick jerk, the robes would take up half of it.

 

Daylen slides onto his makeshift bed, bunches his robes to his waist, and shimmies his underclothes down to his knees. His prick pops free and bobs—a creature with a mind of its own. It’s pink and ready, the foreskin drawn back to show off its moist head. At this point there is no finesse, no art; it’s just a spit to his palm and the hissing relief of his hands on himself.

 

A pull and his hips jerk. A twist and he gasps. He digs his heels into the coarse blanket and finds a demanding rhythm. His lips form the sounds he can’t make, lest he be heard by the others. Cursing the Maker for making something so wonderful into a sin, he rocks his hips and pounds his fist, immersing himself in man’s greatest sin, his greatest gift. His hands slip down to fiddle with his sac, smoothing the wrinkle with his thumb and tickling the hairs.

 

He can’t bring himself to truly fantasize, at least not often. It’s mostly blank faces and endless hands and anonymous orifices. But sometimes—in the throes of lust—he can pretend. Sometimes it’s Zevran, hands tight on Daylen’s thighs, spreading his legs; sometimes it’s Leliana’s little hand, calloused but delicate, toying with his slit; sometimes it’s Wynne’s, lips pressing gentle, motherly kisses to his forehead as she rides him with slow rolls of her hips; sometimes it’s Alistair’s awkward, spastic thrusts, taking them where they both need to go, quickly; sometimes it’s Morrigan’s sinful mouth, taking him down until he hears her snuffling in his pubic hair; sometimes it’s Sten’s weight pinning him down, his sex splitting him open until Daylen is sobbing; sometimes it’s Oghren, his breath rancid and boozy, his beard rasping against his chest.

 

Sometimes, when he’s really delirious with passion, it’s all of them together. One entity fucking him and riding him and sucking him and licking him. It’s then he cannot control himself, cannot stave off his explosive end.

 

Now is one of those times.

 

Sweat stings his eyes; he squeezes them so tightly, whites and reds burst behind his eyelids. His sac draws up, preparing to fire, and finally does. He erupts in an erratic spurting of white and mind-numbing pleasure. He arches, his eyes roll back, and he shouts as his orgasm barrels over him like an ogre.

 

He slumps, sweat cooling his body and his spend drying on his robes. He purrs, so distracted by his bliss that he doesn’t hear the shift of the flap of his tent falling shut or the shuffling of dazed feet.

 

When Daylen climbs out, belongings slung over his shoulder, he smiles warmly at a jittery templar, a humming Chantry sister, more-stoic-than-normal  Qunari, a flushing Circle mage, a snorting apostate, a smug Antivan elf, a green-faced dwarf, and a very, very puzzled Mabari.


End file.
